


A Sordid Business

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Dubious Consent, Intoxication, Javert Lives, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Coercion, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-23 19:43:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9673241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: Valjean feels himself flush beneath that scrutinizing gaze, although he cannot say why. Then Javert nods at the small building before them, and Valjean falters when he realizes where Javert brought them.A public urinal.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ellamason](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellamason/gifts).



“I need a favor.”

That is what Javert says after Valjean opened the door in the Rue de l'Homme-Armé, which he closed one month ago, fearing that Javert would return in the morning to take him away in shackles.

But Javert did not return after that fateful night, and slowly, Cosette's worry for Marius dispelled Valjean's own fear.

Now, his heart racing in his chest, Valjean slips outside with Javert, for it seems that at long last, the end of what little happiness he has found will come about sooner than he had hoped.

Obediently, he walks by Javert's side as Javert leads him through the narrow streets. He does not know what to say, so he is silent; Javert is silent too, although he walks with long strides, seemingly preoccupied.

Is it, perhaps, a ruse? Did Javert fear that Valjean might resist and harm the men sent to arrest him, and so contrived this plan to lead him peacefully to his fate?

Valjean swallows as he looks at the houses they pass by. Will this be his last day of freedom? How he wishes he could have said goodbye to Cosette. Still, perhaps this way, she will never know...

“Here,” Javert says abruptly and hustles him into a different street, along a fence of wrought iron. It guards one of the parks of Paris. Valjean has walked its paths before; he can think of no reason for why Javert might seek to bring him here to arrest him.

“What favor do you need?” Valjean asks at last as they walk quickly beneath chestnut-trees.

“I could not think of how to do this before I realized that there is a man I know who owes the state a great debt—a bagnard. And I need a bagnard for this. I'm sure you will know what to do, Jean Valjean.”

There is some derision in Javert's words, but also something that almost sounds like affection. No—a certain familiarity, Valjean thinks. That is what it must be; Javert thinks of him as a convict still. Not affection, but possessiveness, perhaps.

Since Valjean has given himself up to Javert already, he should not be surprised by anything that follows now. Nor should he be shamed by the truth that Javert speaks, even though it still makes him shudder with secret shame.

Javert comes to a sudden halt and gives Valjean a critical look.

“Yes,” he mutters, “yes, you should do quite nicely, Jean Valjean.”

Valjean feels himself flush beneath that scrutinizing gaze, although he cannot say why. Then Javert nods at the small building before them, and Valjean falters when he realizes where Javert brought them.

A public urinal.

“I, ah, I have no need to,” Valjean stammers, confused and unsettled.

Javert's expression does not change.

“I see,” he simply says, and then Valjean is led along the shady paths once more until they come to the end of the park. Javert does not stop or offer any explanation, and Valjean is forced to hurry along beside him.

Javert leads them with quick strides towards a wine-shop. It is early yet, and Valjean is not thirsty, but he is so baffled and unsettled by Javert's company that he follows along unquestioningly.

The small wine-shop is empty. The tavern holds no more than a few tables, and it is too early yet to draw a crowd of students. But there is a tired-looking man behind the bar who sells Javert a bottle of wine, and then Javert grabs hold of Valjean's arm and pulls him to a table in a corner, half-hidden in shadows.

Valjean goes along without question. A glass is placed before him; Javert fills it.

“Drink,” Javert says curtly.

Again Valjean wonders what Javert's plan is. It is the strangest arrest he has ever witnessed, and yet he knows that he is in Javert's power, and perhaps rightly so. To tremble in the hand of the law is surely a better fate for someone like him than to sign a marriage certificate with a false name and render an innocent child's happiness invalid.

He tightens his hand around the glass. Beneath Javert's impatient gaze, he raises it to his lips and sips. The wine is passable; he has had worse. His tongue remembers the sour taste of the wine when the chain-gang was led to Toulon in day after day of misery, and the clamoring of the men around him for the thin wine they were allotted.

His hand shakes as he imagines making that journey again, so late in his life. This time, there will be no escape. This time, it will be the final time they rivet the collar shut behind his neck.

He lowers the glass, his tongue thick with dread and the memory of the vinegary wine of long ago.

Javert is still watching him, his gaze impenetrable. Then Javert's hand shoots out and takes hold of the glass, pushing it up until Valjean has no choice but to drink again or spill it all.

Wide-eyed, Valjean swallows, his cheeks flushing with heat as the wine burns in his throat.

Heat is gathering in his stomach, the wine mingling with shame. But Javert keeps watching with obvious impatience, and he does not allow Valjean to lower the glass until it is empty.

When he can finally settle it back down onto the table, Valjean's hand is shaking, and his face feels like it is burning. He nearly dares to ask Javert what this is for—if Javert thinks Valjean needs the comfort of drink to docilely surrender to his arrest, Javert need not fear—but then Javert takes hold of the bottle once more, and Valjean's glass is refilled to the brim.

Speechless and unsettled, Valjean stares at it.

“Drink,” Javert orders. There is no other explanation.

His stomach churning, Valjean slowly takes hold of the glass once more. He has never had a taste for the drink. To lose control, to give himself away, to reveal the bestial convict beneath the disguise of the philanthropist—that fear has accompanied him for too many years.

But Javert is waiting, and he has surrendered himself to Javert.

Hesitantly, he raises the glass for another sip.

Javert watches with all the focus of the hound. “All of it,” Javert demands when Valjean tries to set the glass down.

“I am not very thirsty,” Valjean says apologetically.

His heart is pounding in his chest, skipping a beat at the way Javert stares at him. It is too warm in this tiny tavern; Javert is too close. Valjean know he should feel alarm, but even the dread that was swirling in his stomach not too long ago is turning slightly fuzzy.

The world is about to end, but for some reason, Javert has decreed that it will end in drink.

“Drink,” Javert orders again, slightly impatient now.

Valjean shudders, his hand raising the glass before the action even registers in his brain.

He takes a sip—and then Javert's hand once more tips up the glass, his eyes watching, dark and relentless, as Valjean's heart clenches. He tries to swallow gulp after gulp of the wine that burns low and hot in his stomach, filling him until his stomach feels heavy and warm and his heart is beating so fast it seems to want to escape his chest.

He cannot swallow fast enough; some of the wine drips from his lips, runs down his chin, and at last Javert relents.

When he is allowed to lower the glass, Valjean hastily wipes at his mouth, flushing and out of his depth. His lips feel swollen; the wine is churning inside his stomach, like an ocean of heat that rises and falls.

Javert stares at him. Abruptly, he stand, and Valjean has to hold on to the table with one hand as he follows.

He is not drunk; he does not think he has ever truly been, but he remembers a time in the bagne when someone shared an illicit bottle of spirits with him. It is not like that day long ago: he feels a little dizzy, and everything is fuzzy, as though he is walking inside a cloud, but he can walk well enough.

Even so he feels hot, uncomfortably aware of his swollen lips and the ache of the bottle of wine swilling around in his stomach.

“Now you will do,” Javert says contently.

He turns away from Valjean and leads him back into the park. Valjean follows, as though Javert had put him onto a leash, the wine whispering rebellious thoughts to him. For what would Javert do if Valjean were to turn and vanish now? Valjean knows how to lose the police in a crowd. He has no wig inside his coat—but he knows where to find a vendor nearby.

In the end, Valjean follows along docilely. Javert knows where he lives. And if there is a thought more sobering than that of the chains, it is the thought of Javert barging in on Cosette, tearing her from her new life.

Javert walks confidently, like a man with a purpose. Valjean still feels too hot. The wine is warm inside his stomach, making his limbs heavy, and he does not even realize that Javert has led him back to the urinal until they are inside.

Valjean halts, confused, and raises his eyes questioningly to Javert. Javert calmly meets his eyes.

After a moment, Valjean flushes again when he realizes just where they are and what this must mean. But certainly Javert cannot mean... Why would Javert—

His mind shies away from the thought. He does not know where to look. He is aware of the weight of Javert's gaze on him, even as he shifts awkwardly, and at last that is enough to make him become aware of the heaviness of the wine inside his stomach.

“Yes, you will do,” Javert mutters, looking at him almost with pride.

Embarrassed and confused, Valjean meets his eyes. There is something fevered in Javert's gaze, yet Javert does not reach out and strike. There are no irons waiting here for him. Valjean does not know what to make of it.

He shifts again. Javert steps a little closer, still watching. It is uncomfortable, but all the same, Javert is now so close that Valjean can feel his arm brush his own.

Valjean shudders and blinks, his eyelids heavy. He really would like to use the urinal now—but with Javert here? When it seems that Javert has brought him here for this very purpose?

“Wait,” Javert mutters.

Obediently, Valjean stops shifting. It is not so bad yet. He can feel the pressure—but he can wait. Only he does not understand what Javert is playing at, and the wine is making him reckless. Almost, he asks Javert what the use of tormenting him so is when he already considers himself Javert's prisoner.

Then the door opens and closes, and Javert stiffens.

Dizzy, Valjean turns his head. A man has come inside, wearing a black coat and hat and a white cravat at his throat.

Valjean is still confused, but next to him, Javert has tensed like the cat lying in wait for the mouse.

“Well?” Javert says pleasantly. “Didn't you want to piss? Take it out.”

As Valjean hesitates, still confused, the other man comes closer. He is Valjean's age, perhaps a few years older. His hair is gray, there are lines around his eyes, but his mouth shows a smile, and his eyes gleam.

“Perhaps monsieur would like some help?” the man asks, his smile pleasant but distracted, his eyes at Valjean's groin rather than his face.

Valjean raises his eyes to Javert's face. He is still not certain what Javert wants from him—is he to be arrested? Or is this some elaborate scheme by which to punish him?

Again he remembers Javert's words, shuddering when the stranger's hand boldly goes to open the buttoned flap of Valjean's trousers.

A bagnard would do, Javert said. And of course, Javert could not ask something so unsavory of another man. Valjean is dizzy and warm and filled with instinctive horror at the man baring him to the air, but surely Javert is right—such things cannot shame a man who has spent half of his life in the bagne.

Confused, embarrassed, he endures, waiting for Javert to speak a verdict that will make all of this make sense. The stranger's fingers are warm around his limp prick. The contact is shocking; Valjean's face burns. No one has touched him so before, no matter what Javert assumes—but it is what Javert has asked of him, and it is also true that he has been Javert's prisoner since that day many weeks ago.

“Very nice,” the man next to him murmurs in a low, intimate voice. “Monsieur, it is very good of you to share.”

Another shudder runs through Valjean when he realizes that the man is speaking to Javert.

A thumb is sliding along his prick, and at the shift of foreskin against the head of his prick, another shiver runs through Valjean, a spark of _something_ mingling with the shame.

“My friend and I take a walk through the park every Thursday,” Javert says, his voice just as low.

When Valjean confusedly dares to raise his eyes, he sees that Javert's eyes linger on his prick in the stranger's hand as well.

The man is now stroking slowly, and with embarrassment, Valjean feels himself stiffen. The touch is pleasurable, there is no other word for it. No one has ever touched him so before, and now that it is happening, he does not know how to react, the wine making his thoughts sluggish.

Javert is still watching him. Valjean can hear the thunder of his pulse in his own ears, even as every slow stroke along his growing prick sends waves of hot pleasure through him.

He cannot make himself watch it; mortified, he tries to keep his eyes on the wall. But it is impossible to ignore the fact that Javert is watching. For some reason, Javert's scrutiny is worse even than a stranger's fingers on his prick, the hand rubbing until he cannot think straight and his breath is shallow and fast, like a panicked animal.

Is this what Javert wanted? To reduce him to what he will always be, no matter which name he tries to hide behind, little more than a thing to be used, not worthy of any consideration in the eyes of Javert because no one would grant a bagnard any modesty...

The man's grip on him is firm and certain, and he is standing so close that Valjean can hear his labored breathing. In a few more moments, it is all over: shame and pleasure spiral through Valjean as his issue splatters onto the floor, his knees weak at the unwanted release that has been wrung from him so easily.

When he hesitantly dares to raise his gaze to Javert again, Javert's eyes are dark and gleaming, like a man in the throes of a fever.

"If you were to take a walk yourself next Thursday," Javert says, "or perhaps you have a friend..."

The stranger laughs softly. "I have a friend, and your companion would be much to his taste, monsieur."

A jot of shame runs through Valjean. Is Javert planning to make him expose himself to strangers again next week? What cruel torment is this? Would it not be easier to have him brought to the station-house instead, to have him sent to the galleys one final time, or rather, to the guillotine...

Or is this a strange sort of mercy? Has Javert decided to commute his sentence, yet still desires that Valjean drinks the cup of shame down to the last dregs?

The door closes. Valjean blinks, so lost in the haze of misery and the wine's heat he has not realized that the stranger has left. Javert is still watching him, but this time, his expression is smug—almost fond.

"It's true," Javert mutters to himself, "by letting a small thing slide, one might put an end to a larger crime. A sordid business this is... but that is where fate has placed me. And it is no use to run from our fate—nor from our roots, is it?"

The last is addressed to Valjean, who shivers again, not quite certain what to make of this Javert. He had half thought him mad when Javert simply vanished after driving him home. These words, too, sound like the words of a madman, at least when coming from Javert's mouth.

"Are you not," Valjean asks quite miserably, "are you not going to arrest me then?"

Javert laughs voicelessly and steps closer—close enough that his arm brushes Valjean's shoulder. With a start, Valjean realizes that he is still exposed, his prick hanging free for everyone to see who might enter.

His face flushes with heat once more, but before he can begin to try and put himself away, Javert has taken hold of him.

Valjean gasps in shock. He is soft, and Javert's fingers hold him lightly. He does not know what to think or say; he is stunned into silence.

"Well? Didn't you want to piss?" Javert says, and after a moment, when Valjean does not answer, commands impatiently, "Go on! I don't have all day."

A shudder of fervid mortification runs through Valjean. The wine has settled heavy and low in his stomach, so that he feels uncomfortably full. Even so, with Javert's hand grasping his prick, it takes long moments until at last, need turns to desperation and he has no choice but to let go.

It gushes out of him in a thick stream of gold. For a moment, the relief is so strong he cannot even feel shame.

Then Javert laughs low into his ear.

"This was quite a conundrum," he murmurs. "How strange that before that night, I could not see—but it is not so hard, is it? I used to think that to take even a small step off the path meant to fall all the way. But that night, when I found myself clinging to pillars that crumbled all around me, I decided to take one step off the straight road. I did not fall. And here I am, balancing still on the ruins of what was. Will you take responsibility for that, Jean Valjean?”

When Valjean does not answer, Javert laughs again, the low, hoarse sound that at any other time would have filled Valjean with dread. “Never mind. You did lead me to a strange solution to a problem that has long plagued me. How to get a lead on Fouré, the forger who runs a gang in Montmartre? Then I heard he has a liking for men of your sort—well, you will understand, I am certain. He too served his time in the galleys."

Javert's lips curve against Valjean's ear, who is shuddering with shame but still cannot stop pissing, an endless stream of heat gushing from his prick, which is held securely in Javert's hand.

"Whom could I ask for help? This is no thing to ask of an honorable man. But then I remembered that there is a bagnard I know—a bagnard who owes the state a favor. Yes, your chain is still in the hand of Authority, Valjean. And surely this is no terrible thing to ask from a man like you. In any case, you will come with me again next week."

Valjean shudders, the stream of piss slowing to a trickle. It is a relief, even though before his mind's eye, he imagines standing in this place again with Javert next week, being forced to bare himself to a stranger—being forced to allow the stranger to touch him, even, and worse: Javert watching such a thing with impenetrable eyes

In Toulon, Valjean kept to himself, although he knew what other men indulged him. No one had touched him before, until Javert led him into this urinal. Still, he cannot deny that Javert is right, even though it makes him tremble with humiliation. Yet it is true—it is not so debasing to a galley-slave, who cannot afford pride. And is that not who he will always be?

Javert's thumb glides across the head of his prick, smoothing the last droplet of piss over him while Valjean shudders miserably, still so sensitive that this sends a jolt of heat through him. He is almost grateful now for the haze of the wine; perhaps, he thinks, he will walk home through this haze and go to bed and when he wakes, it will have been a dream.

"I will see you next week," Javert says. It is not a threat from his lips, but a simple statement. And perhaps now is the time for Valjean to speak out, to tell Javert that he is wrong, that Valjean cannot bear such a thing, that he would rather be sent to the galleys than made to expose himself in a urinal.

Javert's lips curve again. Valjean remains silent, his mind reeling and his stomach churning. Perhaps Javert is indeed right. He is not the good man whom he has pretended to be. Cosette cannot see it, nor can the relatives of the boy she loves. But Javert knows the truth of him.

Valjean cannot argue with the ease with which Javert has seen through him. It seems cruel of God to grant him those years of peace, only to thrust him back into the shame which he escaped so long ago—but surely even this can be born if it is asked of him.

Javert is still watching him. Now he scoffs a little, though his eyes never leave Valjean's face. “Or I could buy another bottle of wine. I think you would enjoy that, Jean Valjean.”

Surely now the time has come to find an excuse and leave. Javert has all but released him. Now, more than ever, he should run from what he knows will follow.

Instead, inexplicably, his stomach still churning with mortification and heat, Valjean nods.


End file.
